Thing
by Scoliosis
Summary: AU, Modern Day. “A dead man, a broken body, and a darkhaired stranger. Her family awoke It, and It took her father's body for Its own. Now, It seeks her in order to recover what It lost millenia ago: Its sons.
1. Chapter One

_Disclaimer: All stories, songs, plots, characters, places, poems, etc. that you recognize in this story from any of J.R.R. Tolkien's works belong strictly to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not own any of them._

* * *

Chapter One 

"A dead man, a broken body, and a dark-haired stranger. Is this correct, Ms. Andros?" The man raised a quizzical eyebrow, reaching for a cup of coffee that had long since lost its heat. Exhausted, he discreetly slid his shirt sleeve up until a well-worn watch was revealed. _Midnight_, he sighed mentally, absent-mindedly rubbing his temples. _All day, and still no answers._

The woman before him studied his face blankly, her own devoid of all expression. With her messy hair, pallid features, and white, hospital gown, she appeared more suited for the mental hospital than a police station. Yet, here she was, without any rhyme or reason; the only witness to a mysterious death.

_That took place fifteen years ago_, he thought in irritancy, wanting nothing more than to go home, sleep, and spend time with his wife and infant daughter. Instead, he was locked away in this small, gray room with a young woman who obviously knew nothing about this particular case. _Damn, she couldn't have been more than six years old. How **could **she remember much more?_ "All right, Ms. Andros," he sighed, stuffing the murder scene photos into a well-worn envelope. "I'm sorry to have kept you here. You're free to go—it's obvious that neither you nor I know much about this case whatsoever."

Attempting to smooth her unruly, dark hair, she replied, "I'm sorry if I seem difficult, Detective Hill."

_That would be an understatement_, he thought in response, inwardly rolling his eyes.

"It's just that—" she paused, adding, "I've been extremely shaken up these past few days, let alone my entire life." Growing irritated, she continued, "My father disappeared when I was seven, leaving no note, no clue of his whereabouts. My mother barely held the family together, until to come down with ovarian cancer when I was fourteen."

He cringed, remorseful for dealing so harshly with this witness. _I need to get more sleep_, he reasoned, _or I will end up exploding at one of them someday soon._ "I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Andros, and—"

She held up her hand, interrupting his apology. "I don't need sympathy, apologies, or explanations for your actions," she answered coldly, pursing her lips and scowling. Her morbid expression highlighted the hideous dark circles resting beneath her eyes, giving her the appearance of a corpse recently returned from the grave. "Things have never been great, you see, but they were manageable. Until three days ago, when that _Thing_ . . ." Her voice trailed off, eyes centered on something that only she was capable of viewing.

He frowned, studying the woman concernedly. _What is wrong with her? _he wondered, closing his eyes and once more rubbing his temples. "We've been through this several times, Ms. Andros," he began, speaking in a calm tone more suited for a small child. "The doctors have explained this, the investigation team has confirmed it, our _surveillance footage of the store _has confirmed it: there was nothing there that attacked you."

She focused on him momentarily before bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. "You see this," she demanded, pointing toward the numerous cuts and scrapes lining her face and the large bruise over her left cheek. "Don't tell me that "nothing" gave me these wounds. Granted, I don't know _what _gave them to me, but _something_ most certainly did, whether that something is an intangible entity or not."

Once more sighing, he reopened a binder, and said, "Fine. We'll go with the assumption that _something _really did attack you. But you have to understand me when I say this, Ms. Andros: in order for us to protect you and find out what murdered your father, we need to know what happened to you all those years ago, when you claim this episode first began. We also need to know who that 'dark haired man' is. Do you understand?"

Nodding, she swallowed, and added, "All right. I'll try to remember, and I will try to help you the best that I can. Just remember, though: I was seven-years-old and fifteen years have passed."

* * *

_The house we moved into is really big. Mom said it used to be a castle a long time ago. There are holes everywhere, and she says we'll have to get some guys to fix them for us. Everything is silver-colored and the stairs are really long. Mom said my room is on the top floor, right over hers and Daddy's. I went in there today, and I didn't like it. There was red stuff on the wall, and when I asked Mom what it was, she just said it was red paint left from the last people who lived here. She thinks I'm stupid and that I don't know what that stuff really is, but I do. It's blood. I don't know how it got there, though. _

_Jeez. I'm seven, not a baby._

_I don't like this house, though. It's sad here. Last night, I heard somebody crying outside my window. I looked out, but no one was there. I got really scared and hid under the covers. When Mom came in this morning, I told her what happened, and she just gave me a hug and told me to be really quiet. She seemed scared, and that made me even more scared._

_Daddy's been really weird. He went to look at the other part of the castle and when he came back, he was all different. He talks in this really strange voice and is really mean to Mom. He doesn't talk to me at all, and just stays up in his office all day, looking through weird books, or looking at the other part of the castle. Mommy seems really scared, and just stays in her room all day. Last night, I heard her praying. But Daddy wasn't in there. He was out, looking at stuff, but I don't know what. _

* * *

_"And in those ruins dwelt a ghost,_

_Of a past and time unknown;_

_And do you know what he wanted most?_

_To claim your body for his own."_

Detective Hill glanced up. For reasons unknown to him, the words of her poem sent chills down his spine, echoing into the dark recesses of his mind and unleashing a terror that he had long repressed. Whispering, he asked, "What is that poem from?"

Her eyes turned toward his, reflecting the terror he now felt. "It was my mother's. She was a lawyer before she met my father, but quit working after she had me. She was always a very talented writer, especially in the area of poetry. She started to write more often, though, after we moved into that . . . place. This was just one of her poems." She began fiddling with a bracelet on her arm, studying the ground.

Hill's interest was peaked. "What place?" he asked, a bit more assertively than he intended.

"I really don't remember much about it," the woman answered, meeting his gaze once more. "My father was an architect. Actually, he was an extremely well-known architect, from what I was told, and made a great deal of money from whoever it was that he designed for. When I was seven, he bought a rather large piece of property and we moved into the ruins that were spread out all over the grounds."

"What kind of ruins?" Hill asked, the previous sense of foreboding returning. He felt as though he was about to unlock a dreaded and ancient secret that had been intended to remain locked away forever for the good of mankind.

"Old, _very _old," the woman answered, pursing her lips in a thoughtful manner. "When I was twenty, I studied abroad for a semester in Greece, and I visited all kinds of temples and buildings that were estimated to be several thousand years old. But now, when I think back, I realize that wherever it was that we lived when I was seven was substantially older than anything I ever visited in Europe. So ancient that I couldn't even begin to imagine who or _what _built the place. I just know my father fell in love with the idea of remodeling everything, and so we went."

Pausing, she continued, "I just remember that one day, he went to survey the area at the far corner of the property that we had not yet remodeled. He was gone for several hours, and when he came back, he was _gone_. I never saw him again."

"In your report," Hill countered, perplexed, "you stated that your father disappeared when you were roughly eight or nine years old. How could he have been 'gone' when you were seven?"

"I mean 'gone,'" the woman explained, "in the sense that while my father's _body _was still there, it wasn't him. The person who came back was _not _my father by any means. I don't know who or what it was, but when I looked into his eyes, there was something icy there, something filled with more pain than I think I could ever know. And it was old, whatever it was, it was ancient. Like the ruins themselves. And deadly." She stopped, adding, "And intelligent. _Incredibly _intelligent. My father was a smart man, but this thing, this thing was beyond the scope of human knowledge."

Hill raised a skeptical brow. _All right, maybe she **does **need a mental hospital._ "So, what you're saying," he began, "is that some spirit or creature took over your father's body?"

"Yes, exactly," the woman answered, appearing relieved.

"I have one last question before we take a break," Hill began, absent-mindedly twirling a pen in his fingers, "Do you think you could remember the name of this place if you thought hard enough?"

The woman frowned and closed her eyes briefly. Opening them once more, she replied, "The Thing said it once, I think. He mentioned something about a 'Doriath.'"

And with her words, Hill admitted that he had officially fallen over the deep end into insanity.


	2. Chapter Two

_Disclaimer: All stories, songs, plots, characters, places, poems, etc. that you recognize in this story from any of J.R.R. Tolkien's works belong strictly to J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not own any of them._

* * *

Chapter Two

"_And this dark-haired man, who is he?" __The psychologist folded his hands patiently, gazing longingly toward the gray, wall clock hanging overhead that testified he and this deranged, young girl would remain with one another for forty-five more minutes until the session's ending. _

_The girl eyed him menacingly, pursing her lips stubbornly. "Why do we have to get into this?" she demanded, placing a shaking finger into her mouth and nervously tearing the edge of a white nail away. She had long ago ceased to behave politely around this man. Like her mother, he believed no word she uttered and cared more about his salary than actually helping her. _

_**I may be fourteen, **she thought, scowling at the gray-haired psychologist, **but I am no idiot**. Studying the man, she added mentally, **I see right through you**._

"_We have to 'get into this,'" the psychologist explained, taking a deep breath of air, "because your mother wishes to know why you have such disturbing dreams. Are they real or are they not?"_

"_They are real dreams," she insisted, crossing her arms in an effort to shield herself from the cold she constantly felt. "They are as real as my father's death."_

"_Tell me about your father," the psychologist suggested suddenly, obviously interested by the odd death of the famous architect. _

"_You know all about it," she answered, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Why do you need to hear about it **again**?"_

"_Because you obviously don't want to tell me about your dreams, which rest at the heart of this problem, and we have nothing to discuss," the psychologist suddenly snapped, causing the girl's mouth to hang open, stunned._

_**Jeez**, she thought, blinking, **maybe I don't know you as well as I thought**. "I've been dreaming about him since I was nine, after we left the house."  
_

"_The house that your father had begun to renovate?" the psychologist asked, his former outburst forgotten._

"_Yes, the one that was in . . . well, wherever it was," the girl answered, swallowing nervously. "I used to hear crying outside my window at night. And sometimes, I used to think I saw two boys staring up at me, but they would always disappear. I think they were ghosts."_

"_And what does this man have to do with the two boys?" the psychologist prodded. _

"_I don't know," the girl said, twirling a piece of long, dark hair between her shaking fingers. "All I know is that the day we moved away, I started dreaming of this beautiful, dark-haired man who never said a word. And right before I woke up, I would see him waving good-bye to someone in the distance." She paused, eyes lost in a faraway scene within her mind. "Sometimes, well, just once . . ."  
_

"_What?" the psychologist whispered, as lost in t he imaginary picture as she was._

"_I saw a girl riding away on a horse—She was actually dragged onto it. And this man seemed to be running after her, but suddenly, he was a little boy and he was crying. And she looked back at the house where we lived, at the ruins, and suddenly, they weren't ruins anymore. They were complete and silver and shining with **something**. But there were men all around, and there was a gorgeous woman with silver hair—and she was cut down by this dark-haired man . . ." Her voice trailed off as she mimicked the motion of a murderer's sword cutting through living flesh. _

"_The same dark-haired man you dreamed of?" the psychologist asked, a thoughtful look flitting across his features before disappearing into obscurity._

"_No," the girl answered, shaking her head vigorously. "You see, most of the people I dreamed of **did **have dark hair. But the man who killed the woman, he was different. Completely different. His eyes, his face, the way he was built were not the same at all. But this woman, she died. "And then, the girl rode away, this light shining from her neck." **What did they call it? **she wondered, searching her mind for an answer._

* * *

"The Silmaril," she muttered, focusing her eyes on those of Detective Hill's.

"What?" Hill asked, mind still racing from the mention of the fictional kingdom "Doriath."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized, shaking her head in embarrassment. "I was just thinking of the dreams I had as I teenager and—" she stopped, suddenly adding, "There was just something called a 'Silmaril' in my dream. That's all."

"Do you realize that both 'Doriath' and the 'Silmaril' are fictional elements of a book by a famous author?" Detective Hill questioned, scratching the back of his head with a well-used pen. "So this story has instantly become even more intriguing then I originally suspected."

"How could my father's death have anything to do with a book?" the woman demanded, skeptically smirking at the detective. "This is insane."

"Not any more insane than believing that your father's body was taken over by a ghost," Hill replied, scowling. Opening his mouth momentarily, he closed it, thinking, _Now what could a supposed "ghost" have to do with Doriath and a Silmaril? None of these things exist! Not ghosts, and especially not places and objects from Tolkien's fictional mythology!_

"Ms. Andros, did the 'Thing' ever explain what it wanted?" Detective Hill asked, a feeling of dread spreading down his spine as he awaited the answer.

"Just call me Jess," the woman stated, adding, "I don't generally mind being called by my last name, but after hearing you use the name repeatedly for almost a full day, I grow tired of it."

"All right then," Detective Hill muttered, inwardly rolling his eyes. "But could you answer my question, please?"

"I stayed away from It," Jess muttered, memories of the cold eyes that had replaced her father's warm orbs. "But once, only once, I did ask."

"And what did It say?"

"It stared at me," Jess answered, eyes growing wide at the memory, "and I saw death. Nothing but death. And the next day, my father was gone, and I began dreaming of a strange, dark-haired man and the ruins being burned over and over again in my mind."

* * *

_Dad is gone, and he's never coming back. That's what Mom told me yesterday. I didn't need her to say anything, though, because I all ready knew. _

_Today, I asked It who it was and what It wanted. It just stared at me, and then It left. That's what I told Mom. But really, It looked at me and I saw things. I don't remember all of them, just a lot of screaming, and fire, and blood. _

_And then It left. Mom asked me what It said. I told her, "Nothing." But really, It said, "I will come and find you again. And you will help me find them. They come to you, I know that." _

_And then It left._

_Mom asked me what It said, so I just told her that nothing happened. Really though, It moved my dad's throat around in this weird why, like It wasn't used to speaking. It took a while for It to get the words out, and It kept opening and closing my dad's mouth, trying to get something to come out. Finally, something did, and that's what It told me._

_I'm glad we're leaving. _

_And that It's gone._

* * *

"Uhh . . . Jess," Detective Hill began, unused to using the witness' first name, "Did this 'Thing' ever say anything to you, anything at all?"

Jess stopped, visibly shaken. "No. It never said a word to me after my father died."

"Are you sure?"

"As positive as I am that I'm going to die someday," the woman answered, frowning.

"So, tell me," Hill demanded, placing his hands on the binder. "What did you see?"

"I've told you everything I know," Jess insisted, sighing.

"You've been leaving something out," Hill replied, gazing at the witness knowingly. "_What did you see? What did you hear?_"

Jess placed her elbows on the table, bringing her face up to eye level with the detective's. "I'll tell you what I saw, but I will _not _go back there," she stated, lips trembling. "I swear to whatever deity you choose that I will _not go back to that house_."

_Jeez, calm down_, Hill thought, frowning in confusion. "All right, Jess. You're safe. You don't have to go back there."

"I saw everything that told you earlier. But I left out one thing: It told me its name, when I saw It again, right before my father's body collapsed."

"And what was it?" Hill asked, enamored with the mysteriousness of the situation.

"Dior."


End file.
